I admit I wouldn’t be sorry if it turned out that way, consid
ering what an obnoxious S.O.B. he is. Could be, though, that the only reason he denied knowing about the engage
ment was that he’s afraid it would give him a motive.’’
‘‘I’ve kind of come to the same conclusion myself—that maybe it means something, but on the other hand, it’s just as likely it doesn’t.’’
‘‘Yeah. You could say the same for that alibi of his. Cor
coran and I drove out to see his bartender buddy last night, and I’m not at all convinced the guy’s legit. Well, I’m gonna have to have another talk with Hyer anyway, just to see what he has to say for himself now. Christ, I’d love to nail that little scuzball!’’
At the world ‘‘little,’’ I broke into a grin. I mean, Tim isn’t exactly Michael Jordan himself. But, mindful of those points I was trying to rack up, I grinned on the inside, where it didn’t show.
‘‘Well, Dez, I have to apologize for not rolling out the red carpet for you this morning,’’ Fielding was saying. ‘‘You really came through this time. Which entitles you to one half of an only slightly stale prune Danish—provided it gets here in this century.’’
‘‘Oh, that wasn’t my news—not my hot news, anyway. That has to do with the will.’’
I’d uttered the magic word. Abruptly returning his chair to its upright position, Fielding leaned toward me. ‘‘What about the will?’’
I filled him in on Claire and Leibowitz, Leibowitz and O’Donnell.
‘‘What did they say?’’
‘‘I didn’t call. I thought that was probably something you should handle.’’
There was a moment of stunned silence before he re
sponded. ‘‘Thanks, Dez. And I mean that.’’ Then he eyed me suspiciously. ‘‘And in return for this magnanimous act of yours, you want . . . ?’’
‘‘To see the apartment, that’s all.’’
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‘‘I don’t know how to break this to you, but you’d have gotten to see the place without giving away the store. I was gonna call and tell you you could come up on Saturday if you wanted to.’’
Oh, Shit! ‘‘How come, all of a sudden?’’
‘‘Well, the other night something occurred to me—proba
bly out of desperation. When I first questioned Eric Foster, I asked him if he knew of any dentists or doctors his sisters saw over in London. He said he didn’t have any idea—he moved out to the suburbs when the girls were pretty young, you know.’’
‘‘Yes, I’m aware of that.’’
‘‘Anyhow, I started thinking that maybe if he came across the name of a doctor or dentist, he just might recog
nize it—even if he didn’t know whether either of the women had ever been the man’s patient. So I asked him if he’d mind going up to the apartment and browsing through
some of his sisters’ old checkbook stubs—from back when they were living in England.’’
‘‘You might have something there,’’ I said admiringly. Fielding actually appeared slightly embarrassed by my almost-compliment. ‘‘You should see the records those women kept,’’ he went on quickly. ‘‘In most cases, all they included were names and amounts—not even a date. And there’s no notation at all about what the checks were for. I have my doubts they’d be bothered writing down ‘M.D.’
or ‘D.D.S.’—or whatever they’re called over there. At any rate, there’s at least a chance Foster may spot a name that rings a bell.’’ He inhaled deeply, then let out a long, slow sigh. ‘‘We could sure use a set of dental records right now. Or maybe a line on some special physical characteristic that only one of ’em had— anything!’’
‘‘Like a mole next to the navel?’’ I put in facetiously, grinning.
‘‘Does your client tell you everything?’’
‘‘As a matter of fact, it was Larry Shields who men
tioned it.’’
‘‘Anyway,’’ Fielding summed up, ‘‘we’ve made arrange
ments with Foster to meet him at the apartment on Satur
day morning at eleven-thirty.’’
‘‘And I’m invited?’’
‘‘Yeah. Now maybe you’ll finally get off my ass.’’ He muttered the words, but his eyes were definitely twinkling.
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‘‘Okay, Dez,’’ he said, smiling, ‘‘how about we give Leibow
itz, Leibowitz and whoever a call?’’
‘‘O’Donnell,’’ I supplied, handing him the phone number.
He was picking up the receiver when, at that moment, his partner sauntered in.
‘‘Well, well, look who’s still here,’’ Corcoran snickered in this high-pitched voice he has which is so totally incon
gruous coming out of such a large and loathsome person.
‘‘I was hoping you’d be gone by now. But this just hasn’t been my morning.’’ Before I had a chance to zing one his way, he turned to Fielding. ‘‘They were out of prune, so I got you a cheese,’’ he said, handing him a stained brown paper bag. ‘‘And by the way, our new leader requests our presence in his office; ‘chop chop,’ was how he put it. Think you can tear yourself away from Miss Chubbette here?’’
Fielding tossed his partner an appropriately black look.
‘‘I’d better get going,’’ he told me. ‘‘The lieutenant isn’t particularly crazy about being kept waiting. I’ll call the law
yers as soon as I get a chance, and I’ll let you know what’s what. Oh, and why don’t you take the Danish?’’
‘‘Thanks, but that’s okay,’’ I said, declining with an ef
fort. ‘‘I’ve gotta get going, too.’’
I stopped at Jackie’s desk on the way to my office. One look at her face, and I knew I was in trouble. I knew why, too.
On her strict instructions, I normally call if I’m going to be detained at all. But that morning I was in such a hurry to get to the station house that I didn’t take the time to stop and phone her. Besides, I figured I wouldn’t be very late. And besides that, I guess this was one of those very rare times I was subconsciously trying to show some balls and assert myself with Jackie. I mean, isn’t one of the perks of being self-employed not always having to answer to somebody else?
‘‘I was afraid something was really wrong,’’ she informed me in this accusatory tone. ‘‘For all I knew, you could have gotten yourself shot.’’ She glanced at her watch. ‘‘It’s five of eleven; I’ve been trying to reach you since ten. Another few minutes and I would have put in a call to your super.’’
‘‘I’m sorry. I had some business to take care of, and it took longer than I thought it would.’’ Then I added truth
fully, ‘‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’’
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‘‘Look, the next time you’re going to be late, just pick up the phone and let me know. I don’t think that’s a lot to ask, do you?’’
I conceded that it wasn’t. After all, the best secretary in the world—especially since she was also a good and con
cerned friend—deserved some consideration. And why was
it so important to show some damned balls in the office, anyway?
‘‘Um, any messages?’’ I asked timidly.
‘‘Wouldn’t I have told you if you had any?’’
Wisely, I beat it at that point, giving Jackie a chance to cool off and, I hoped, even forget what a trial I was to her. I spent most of the balance of the day closeted in my office, waiting to hear from Tim. I must have checked the clock every five minutes until he finally got in touch with me at a little after three.
‘‘You had a damned good hunch there, but unfortunately
it didn’t pan out,’’ he said dejectedly. ‘‘I just got off the phone with that law firm. Meredith and Mary Ann Foster don’t happen to be clients of theirs.’’
And I’d been so sure! ‘‘Neither of them?’’ I asked weakly.
‘‘That’s right. But listen, it’s not the end of the world,’’
he consoled, sounding a lot more optimistic than I knew he felt. ‘‘Could be the Foster woman’ll be able to fill us in herself soon,’’ he offered, presenting me with my own contention.
But I no longer believed it. Any more than Fielding did. There was no way it would turn out to be that easy. Peter came to dinner that night.
While the lasagna finished baking, we sat in the living room, sipping red wine and nibbling zucchini puffs. ‘‘I have to apologize for not returning your calls,’’ he said, referring to a couple of messages I’d left that morning and the night before. ‘‘I’ve been so wrapped up in what’s been happening with Mary Ann that—’’
‘‘I understand,’’ I interrupted. ‘‘I was just anxious to know if everything was okay.’’
‘‘Everything’s terrific! The brain damage seems to be minimal! Her left hand is partially paralyzed and the vision in her left eye is blurred, but there’s a possibility that with therapy both those things could clear up. And if they don’t,
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well, I’m still pretty grateful. The doctors were telling me how lucky she is a bullet in that part of the brain didn’t do a lot more damage to the optic nerve. And they said how pleased they were it didn’t impair her motor skills to a lot greater extent than it did. So when I think about how bad things could have been . . .’’ He broke off with a shudder. Even in my most optimistic moments, I couldn’t have hoped for anything better—at least as far as the victim’s physical condition was concerned. ‘‘Thank God!’’ I ex
claimed. After which I silently prayed, ‘‘Just let it be Mary Ann!’’
A moment later, Peter said softly, ‘‘She still has no idea who she is, though. That first night, I was hoping she was just a little confused with having been in a coma for so long, but now they claim it’s more than that.’’
‘‘What do they think her chances are of regaining her memory—or haven’t they said?’’ I asked gently.
‘‘Dr. Baker, her neurologist, says that with an injury like hers they can’t be sure. It could happen anytime now, or . . .’’
A couple of seconds passed before he was able to finish the thought. ‘‘Or she may never remember.’’ There was another pause, and then Peter’s mood picked up again.
‘‘But let’s get to some more of the good stuff,’’ he or
dered cheerfully. ‘‘Mary Ann’s even talking now! It isn’t easy for her, all wired up like that—and you can barely understand her—but she manages it. Yesterday, she asked what happened to her, and the doctors told her she was in an accident. And then she asked what her name was. They told her it was Foster. She just accepted that; she didn’t ask about her first name or anything. A while later, she wanted to know who I was. The doctors had made me promise that if she asked me, I’d say I was just a good friend. So that’s what I did. But it almost killed me.’’
‘‘I know it did. But—for the time being, anyway—I think
you’re going to have to leave it at that.’’
‘‘I guess so,’’ Peter conceded grudgingly. In an instant, though, his voice became animated again. ‘‘But listen, this afternoon she took some nourishment through a straw for the first time. How’s that for progress?’’
And on that happy note, we went into the kitchen for our lasagna.
It wasn’t until we were almost finished with dinner that Peter said excitedly, ‘‘Hey, I didn’t tell you, did I? The
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doctors were discussing plastic surgery this morning like it’s actually for real, like they expect Mary Ann to be around for it! It would be a series of operations—three or four, I think. But of course they’ll have to wait awhile, until she’s stronger and her jaw heals a little.’’
‘‘That’s a very positive sign,’’ I told him, marveling at how much things had changed in these last forty-eight hours.
Well, no matter which twin was lying there in St. Cather
ine’s and no matter how everything eventually worked out, this had to be better for Peter than all of those long, agoniz
ing weeks in limbo.
But then I reminded myself that—in spite of what he professed—Peter was still in limbo, that he’d be in limbo until the question of identity was truly resolved. And, with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I had to face the realization that might never happen. Chapter 22
Peter left at a little after midnight—with the extra pan of lasagna I pressed on him.
About five minutes after the door closed, I was ready to flog myself. How could I even consider the possibility of never sorting out the identities of the victims? Peter was depending on me, and I had to come through for him—or die trying.
So on Friday I revved myself up to pursue another angle
of the case: I was going to find out the truth about that short-lived rift between Meredith and Larry Shields. I began with Tara Wilde, the Love and Stuff cast member I was convinced represented my best chance of getting the facts. In other words, the person it would be easiest to manipulate.
I called her from my apartment at six-thirty. No answer. And, surprisingly for an actress, no answering machine, ei
ther. I tried again twenty minutes later. Still no answer. Maybe she had a date. But then again, maybe she just hadn’t come home from rehearsal yet. At seven-fifteen, I gave it what I’d determined would be my final try. (I hadn’t eaten since a really puny lunch at twelve, and my stomach would not be denied much longer.) This time, Tara picked up on the second ring.
The girl’s tone became wary as soon as I mentioned my name—which she recognized instantly. (That’s the one ad
vantage of being a Desiree Shapiro: It’s way up there on the memorability scale.) Of course, considering our last en
counter, I wasn’t exactly stunned by the unenthusiastic re
ception I got.
‘‘Listen,’’ I told her—making sure all my natural warmth
and sincerity came through in my voice—"there’s this one small point I’d like to check out with you. I’m in your neighborhood now, and I thought, if you haven’t eaten yet,
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maybe we could grab a bite together while we talked.’’
(Since Tara lived in the west sixties, I wasn’t anywhere near her neighborhood. But I wanted the invitation to sound casual so she’d drop her guard a little.)
Evidently I didn’t come off as likable as I’d hoped, be
cause she was still leery of meeting with me. ‘‘I told you all I know when you questioned me at the theater,’’ she said.
‘‘Oh, I’m sure you did. But this just cropped up, and I was hoping you could shed some light on it. It won’t take long; I promise. I’m on West Sixty-seventh now with a cli
ent, and I should be through here around eight. And then I have another appointment a few blocks away at tenfifteen, which gives me a couple of hours to kill. You’d be doing me a real favor if you joined me for dinner. Please. I’m absolutely starved, and I hate to eat alone.’’ That part, at least, was true.
Tara hesitated, weighing the offer carefully, before re
sponding with what I could tell were the first words of a reluctant turn-down. ‘‘Gee, I’m not . . .’’
Quickly I played my trump card. ‘‘We can go to any restaurant you like,’’ I told her. (Taking into account what novice actresses earn, there was a good possibility that for a really special meal, she might even be willing to put up with me.)
‘‘Well . . . there’s this wonderful seafood restaurant I heard about. But it is kind of expensive.’’
We arranged to meet at the restaurant at ten after eight. Which, I calculated, should allow me to get into my coat, go downstairs, engage in some ugly battles with m
y neigh
bors over the few available taxis (it was a Friday night, remember?) and—by eventually outwitting someone who
lacked my street smarts—make it over to the West Side in time.
I got to the Sea Scape at quarter after eight. Tara was standing in front of the place shivering, her slim frame hud
dled in a coat about two sizes larger than she was, her cheeks and nose whipped to a bright pink by the strong end-of-February wind.
‘‘Why didn’t you wait inside?’’ I asked.
‘‘You didn’t mention inside, and I was worried you might
not think to look.’’
Hey, this just might be easier than I thought!
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Over our crabmeat cocktail, I was careful to keep the conversation away from the investigation. How was the show going? I asked. Tara said fine but that the opening had to be postponed until the end of March to give Lucille Collins a chance to work into her new role. And how was her part coming along? Pretty good, although she only had a few lines, so how bad could she mess up? Then I asked what the play was about. Food must have had a relaxing effect on the girl, because she cheerfully related the plot. As soon as the waiter removed our naked dishes, Tara wanted to know how I came to be a P.I. And I undoubtedly
told her more than she ever hoped to hear.
By the time we were having our scampi (yes, Barbara, scampi!), we were chatting away like old friends. Then, as I was spearing my third huge, succulent shrimp, I finally broached the case. ‘‘The reason I wanted to talk to you,’’
I said, ‘‘is that I heard from another cast member re
cently—and I don’t know how true it is—that Meredith was
very depressed the week she died.
Tara’s huge eyes opened wide, and she arrested her fork
in midair. ‘‘Who told you that?’’
‘‘I’m afraid I can’t say; it was told to me in confidence.’’
‘‘Well, I didn’t notice anything,’’ she assured me before lustily attacking her food again. ‘‘Have you asked Larry about it?’’
That was the opening I wanted.
‘‘No, not yet. I was hoping I might not have to. I hate bugging him; this thing’s hit him really hard.’’
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